


Sunday Drive

by commanderlurker



Category: Original Work
Genre: Butch/Femme, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Hair Brushing, Service, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 06:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21351382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commanderlurker/pseuds/commanderlurker
Summary: For the prompt, Femme woman out for a Sunday drive doms butch woman hitchhiker.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50
Collections: Femdom Exchange 2019





	Sunday Drive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butterpanic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterpanic/gifts).

> I don't know anything about the 50s other than a five minute google image search for 50s cars, and the Wikipedia page for 50s lesbians. I hope I got enough right...

Sun’s stinking hot. No trees near the road. Done nothing but stand here and she's still got sweat patches the size of Texas ringing her armpits. Her braces stick her shirt to her back.

Rumble of a car in the distance. Comes out of the mirage haze. She sticks her arm out, thumb up. The car roars past. The passenger throws something--a can. It misses.

"Fuck you, you bastard," she yells.

Is she going to start walking? Nah, just wait a little longer.

The rumble of another car. Thumb out.

Thunderbird, mint green, top down. It slows and pulls over. Blonde in the driver's seat. Gorgeous. All wild hair, red polka dot dress, red lipstick. She lowers her sunglasses. "Where you headed, doll?"

Oh, this is going to be good. "Wherever you're headed." She grins and rocks on her heels.

Blondie grins back, all white teeth and red lips. She tilts her head to the passenger seat. "You better get in then."

She chucks her bag in the back seat and gets in. Holds her hand out. “Name’s Sandy.”

Blondie takes her hand, but only the fingers, turning Sandy’s hand so Blondie’s is clasped on top. “Nice to meet you, Sandy. You can call me Margo.”

Sandy raises Margo’s hands to her lips and kisses Margo’s knuckles.

“Aren’t you a peach!” Margo fixes her sunglasses and speeds off, kicking gravel out behind them as they rejoin the road.

The relief from the breeze is immediate. Sandy leans back, rests her arm on the door, only to snap back--too hot.

“How long were you waiting out there?” Margo asks.

“Too long.”

“Lucky for you I came by.”

“Guess that makes you my knight in shining armor.”

Margo flashes a grin. “Want to ride into the sunset, honey?”

Sandy laughs. “Any where’s better than here.” She settles in. She doesn’t care where they go, so long as there’s work at the end of it. She’s down to her last ten bucks but she’s confident she’ll find a place that’ll take her in. Just got to get there first. And with a ride like this, it won’t take long. She glances at Margo out the corner of her eye. She drives with a smile, like she’s having the best time ever. She’s got a long, elegant neck. Those polka dots hug a gorgeous rack. Sandy looks for as long as she can at Margo’s cleavage. Thinks about slipping her hand onto her knee, under her dress, up her thigh…

Margo looks over. “Something caught your eye?”

“Just you.”

“You’re a peach.”

“And this car. I mean, look at this thing.” Sandy runs her hand over the matching mint green dash.

“Only the best for me,” Margo says. “That goes for my damsels in distress, as well.”

That seals the deal. Sandy rests her arm along the back of the driver’s seat, hugs Margo’s shoulder with her hand.

They stay like all the way to the next dot of a town. It’s two houses and a gas station. Margo pulls in and cuts the motor. “Be a doll and pump the gas for me, will you?”

No big deal. Sandy’s got to earn her ride somehow, after all.

Margo slides a few notes out of her purse and hands them to Sandy. There’s a whole stack in there--more cash than Sandy’s ever seen. They’re crisp, new. Looks like they just came off the press. She goes and pays and tries not to think about what all that cash could mean.

Margo’s already got the engine running when Sandy strides back to the car. She jumps in and before she can buckle up, Margo accelerates, burning rubber and squealing tires. She laughs, wind in her hair again. “Ahh, I love the open road.”

Sandy has to agree. The sun’s on her face, the wind’s in her hair, and she’s got a gorgeous woman next to her. What more could she want? Clean clothes, if she’s being picky. A steady job.

She’s on the verge of falling asleep when Margo pulls in at a truck stop diner.

“Be a doll and open the glove box, will you?”

There’s a makeup bag in here, sunglasses case, a purse. Margo asks for the lipstick. Sandy goes through and finds it, hands it over. Watches as Margo runs the bright red lipstick over her taut lips. She smacks her lips together, plumps her hair, adjusts her dress. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

The diner is mercifully cool, but the cook in the kitchen looks like she’s roasting. Margo orders a steak and Sandy orders a burger, a coke each. Sandy tries a little more small talk until their food arrives. Margo’s not giving much away. Just says Sandy’ll love the place they’re going. Doesn’t say _where_ they’re going. Part of Sandy thinks she should ditch Margo and stay here. Plenty of people driving in and out. She’s sure to get another ride, and if she can’t, well, there’ll be dishes to wash and there’s a motel next door. But Margo’s slipping her bare foot under the hem of Sandy’s trouser leg and her burger takes this moment to ooze mayo over her fingers and if that’s not a sign, then she should just quit now.

Margo drinks her coke with all the seductiveness of a pinup girl. Red lips around a white straw. Red nails on perfect fingers clasping the condensation-wet bottle. Imagine those fingers raking across Sandy’s back in the throes of passion--

“Let’s hit the road, honey.” Margo pays with more of those crisp new bills.

After a few more miles, Margo turns off the main road and they cruise through fields until she turns into a cypress lined driveway. Gravel crunches under the wheels. They round the corner. Sandy’s mouth falls open. A mansion. An actual mansion. Three stories, columned entryway like some ancient Greek temple.

“Where the hell are we?” she asks.

Margo takes off her sunglasses and hands them to Sandy. “You said you wanted to go wherever I was going, and now I’m here.” She leaves Sandy to find the sunglasses box in the glove compartment.

“This your house?” Sandy asks, adjusting her bag on her shoulder as she jogs to catch up with Margo at the front door. She’s only seen houses like this in magazines.

“Well, I wouldn’t just walk into someone else’s house, would I?”

Suppose not.

Sandy follows Margo in. This isn’t what she was expecting, not at all. A cute house in the suburbs, or a three bed apartment with a view, even a balcony--that’s what she was expecting from someone driving a mint green Thunderbird.

Margo follows Sandy into the kitchen. It’s cool, like the inside of a fridge. There’s a fruit bowl on the countertop, kettle on the stove. The table is set as if dinner’ll be ready in an hour. Margo turns around, arm braced against the island bench. Pushes her tits out. “I thought we could freshen up, then maybe get dinner?” She sashays towards Sandy. Presses her index finger to Sandy’s breastbone. “Get a little dessert after?”

Sandy hides her giddiness with a cocky grin; sidles closer, puts her hands on Margo’s hips. “Or we could skip dinner and go straight to dessert.” She slides her hands round to squeeze Margo’s ass, pulling her dress up a little in the process.

Margo turns away, out of Sandy’s grasp, and heads to the fridge. The open door obscures Sandy’s view of Margo, except for Margo’s long legs and pert ass. She comes out with a coke, hands it to Sandy. “I’m going upstairs. Bring that with you, will you? Opener’s around here somewhere.”

Sandy’s left alone, standing in the kitchen clutching a cold coke. Hot damn. She ignores the pang in her pussy and hunts through the drawers for an opener. Finds it. Pops the top. She wanders through the house, up the grand staircase. Lots of art, most of them portraits. None of them look like Margo. All brunettes and brown eyes. No blonde blue-eyed babes in sight.

Finds Margo in a bathroom, heels off, fussing over makeup and brushes on the counter. They make eye contact in the mirror.

“There you are.” Margo waves Sandy in, takes the coke, sets it on the counter, next to a container of brushes. “Be a doll and help me with my dress.” Margo turns.

Sandy’s heart hammers as she pulls the zip down, revealing smooth skin, all the way to the dip of her underwear-clad ass. Margo shimmies out and sits on the ottoman in front of the mirror. Her tits stick out in her ivory white, heavy lace bra. Her underwear matches, hugging her waist. Sandy thinks about what’s underneath as she gathers up the dress and hangs it over a towel rail.

“Anything else, or…”

“Help me with my make up?” Margo bats her eyelashes at Sandy in the mirror.

“Uh, that’s not my area of expertise.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll show you what to do. Come. Sit.” Margo pats the other ottoman. Sandy sits, out of her element. Margo already looks perfect. What more does she need to do? “Pass me the big brush and that black compact.”

Sandy does as she’s told, even though both the brush and the compact are within easy reach of Margo. Watches as Margo brushes blush onto her cheeks and neck, onto her cleavage.

Eyeliner Next. Thin black line under her lids. Black mascara. Makes her eyes really pop. Sandy passes and takes every item. The transformation is subtle, but stunning, still recognizably Margo, but only at a second glance.

Lipstick last. Sandy hands it over but Margo stops her. "You do it."

That’s not a good idea, but hey, she’ll do her best. She takes her time, concentrates as she makes Margo’s lips bright red. Margo rubs her lips together and smacks. "Perfect. Just my hair to go."

Sandy hasn't brushed long hair since she was a kid, but she remembers the motions. She uses her fingers to start, teasing out the knots so they don't tug when she runs the brush through. Driving with the top down really did a number on her hair, but it still looks amazing. Gold and copper catch in the mirror’s lights, like an alchemist weaving gold threads.

Margo leans to the side, humming and sighing, her lips parted, eyes closed. She looks like she's ecstasy. Sandy takes her time with the brush, taming Margo’s hair long past what’s needed. She leans down, brushes Margo’s hair away from her neck. Kisses her. Light lips, tickling and teasing. She’s rewarded with a shiver, a moan. She kisses her again, lower, along her shoulder. Hands on her side, she slides up that smooth skin to cup one of those pointed tits, down to her stomach, over her underwear, between her legs. She’s warm, damp. She presses--

Margo twists away. “Dinner first.” She stands and kisses Sandy on the lips, steps back. The distance is agonizing.

“I’m going to slip into something more comfortable,” Margo says as she walks to the door. “You might want to do the same. Wardrobe is down the hall. Have a shower here if you want.” She waves with a flick of her hand and slips into a bedroom, closes the door.

God damn, Sandy is going to need a long cold shower after that. Her frustration doesn’t last long though. The shower is heavenly, her first in too long. She washes the grime from her hair, her body, thinks about what it’d be like with Margo in here with her.

Feeling satisfied and wrapped in a towel, Sandy wanders the hall, peeking in the closed doors until she finds a bedroom with more masculine styling. Is it Margo’s brother’s room? Father? Don’t know, don’t care. They got good style, that’s for sure. Since they’re going out for dinner, Sandy picks out a whole new suit. Pinstripe. White shirt with pearl buttons. Matching pearl cufflinks. New braces, since the ones she’s wearing are caked in dust and travel sweat. She adjusts the lapels with a shake, slips a red handkerchief in the pocket. Even the shoes fit.

She folds up all her dirty clothes as neat as she can and wraps them in a cheaper looking shirt from the back of the wardrobe, thinking the owner won’t notice it missing.

Back downstairs, she finds Margo in a tight red figure-hugging dress. Plunging cleavage, off the shoulders. Gorgeous. Deadly gorgeous.

Margo kisses Sandy on the lips. Just a peck, really. But it’s the sweetest thing.

“You look divine,” Margo says. She hands Sandy a handbag. It’s heavy. Kinda clunky. Sandy wants to peek in there, but it’s zipped up. Then Margo picks up her purse and the pair head out.

But Margo doesn’t head to the Thunderbird. She goes to the garage around the back. Sandy doesn’t even need to ask; she pulls the door open. There’s a fire engine-red Belair waiting for them. Margo slides into the drivers side. “Get in, honey.” She’s sweet, excited. She’s got the engine running.

Sandy gets in, puts her bag and clothes bundle on the foot well beside her feet.

“You look amazing,” Sandy says. “More than.”

Margo grins. “Thanks, I know.”

They careen back down the gravel drive, the cypress trees golden-green in the evening light, and spin onto the road. As they race down the road, Sandy puts her hand on Margo’s leg, inches her way up her thigh as far as she can.

“You don’t want to distract me, do you?” Margo asks.

“Sorry.”

"Stay there.” She squeezes her legs together, holding Sandy’s hand in place.

Lights from the city fall in front of them as they round the hill. They slow down as more traffic joins the roads. Slow right down as they cruise the main street.

“After all this driving today I thought we should treat ourselves,” Sandy says.

Pulls to a stop outside a restaurant with a French name. Throws the keys to the valet.

Margo loops her arm through Sandy’s and they enter the restaurant like they’re Hollywood stars.

Sandy pulls the chair out for Margo, leans in and kisses her neck, not caring who sees.

Dinner is a riot of expensive wine drunk from crystal glasses, fancy food eaten with tiny forks. They laugh at the other couples, so prim and stuck up and not nearly as handsome as Margo and Sandy. Their knees knock under the table, fingers caress as Sandy fills Margo’s glass and hands it to her.

By the end Sandy’s pleasantly tipsy and more than a little horny.

“I’m going to freshen up. Be a doll and pick up the car?” Margo hands Sandy her purse.

Sandy peeks in the purse. It’s so full of cash the zipper struggles zip back up. She doesn’t know how much the valet is even supposed to cost so she hands over a couple of notes. The valet’s eyes widen and he rushes to get the car.

Sandy idles outside, not sure if she should be driving or not. She fiddles with the radio, finds a station playing rock and roll. She’s adjusting the volume when Margo opens the passenger door and slides in. “Hit the gas, honey. We’ve earned dessert.”

About time. Sandy floors it. Out the rear view mirror she thinks she sees someone burst out from the restaurant and run after them, but the pavement is packed and she’s got a greenlight to catch.

Margo directs her through the streets and this time, Sandy’s the one with a hand between her legs. She’s trying to concentrate but Margo’s hand creeps higher and higher till her hand presses against Sandy’s pussy. Sandy stutters against the accelerator, swaps to the brake as the lights go red.

“Distracted, honey?” Margo asks.

“You got no idea.”

They don’t drive for much longer. Margo points Sandy into a basement carpark. Sandy cuts the engine, grabs her stuff. Margo’s waiting at the elevator; Sandy pushes the up button. The doors open. All mirrors and gold trim. This place a five star hotel or what?

“Thirty-second floor,” Margo says.

Sandy presses the button. Tries to ignore the feeling in her chest, like her heart’s going to beat right out and onto the floor. But wherever she looks, she sees herself--and Margo. She slides her arm around Margo, squeezes her ass. Margo hums and leans in.

_Ding._

The doors open on another door.

“Want me to get that?” Sandy asks, reaching out for Margo to pass over the keys.

“Thanks, but I got this one.”

Sandy gets a great view of Margo’s ass as Margo fusses with the lock. The door wings open. Wow. This place… It’s like the country mansion, only in the middle of the city.

“Make yourself at home, honey.” Margo waltzes in, poking her head in the rooms before heading to the kitchen. This place can’t be real. Floor to ceiling windows, chandeliers, a baby-grand--how’d they even get that up here? Plush settees, a chaise...

Sandy’s still taking in the living room when Margo returns. Margo presses her hands to Sandy's lapels, her forearms against Sandy's breasts. "Time to get you out of this."

Her suit jacket comes off first. Dropped on the floor. Shirt buttons popped by manicured nails, shirt peeled back, bra unhooked and thrown away. Margo pulls Sandy to the bedroom by her belt. They fall onto the bed, a riot of kisses and groping. Shoes, pants, underwear all come off but Margo’s still got that red dress on and it’s driving Sandy crazy. Margo pushes Sandy back against the bed, shimmies out of her underwear. She climbs on top of Sandy, straddling a thigh. Sandy goes for her ass, squeezes, slides her hands under, against wet pussy. Dips two fingers in. Margo arches and moans. Sandy has gotta see those tits though, gotta hold them in her hands, kiss her nipples, feel them hard against her tongue.

Margo obliges, hands behind her back to unzip her dress enough for her tits to spill free. God, yes. They’re full and round, nipples pink and pert. Sandy sits up, kisses those nipples, flicks them with the tip of her tongue. Margo’s sliding herself along Sandy’s thigh, hot and wet and pressing. She pushes Sandy back down, bats away Sandy’s hands so Sandy is forced to just watch as Margo rides, takes what she wants. She cries out and jerks, her lips a perfect O as she orgasms. She slows, leans down and presses her hands against Sandy’s chest and gives her the softest, sweetest smile.

That smile just gets Sandy’s engine revving. “I gotta get you out of that dress.”

The dress comes away, discarded on the floor, and they’re finally both naked. Margo lies back, wiggles against the sheets and pillow, knees bent, legs open. Sandy grins. This is more like it. She kisses her way down Margo’s body, exploring with her lips and fingers, noses her curls between her legs, drinks in that heady, tangy heaven, and dives in, face first. This is her favorite place to be in the world. Nothing beats the cloying heat of thighs clamped around ears, fingers in pussy, tongue licking, stroking lips and clit and cunt. Margo grinds against her face, and Sandy grinds against the sheets, stimulating her own pussy. She’s almost crass enough to finger herself while she’s down here, but she doesn’t need it. She’s got everything she needs to make her body burst bright. The more Margo’s thighs quake, the more her fingernails scratch, the louder her moans, the higher Sandy flies.

She presses Margo’s thighs wider, looks up, over that smooth belly, those heaving tits. She moans, tongue deep in pussy as Margo cries in ecstasy, her back arched.

Sandy stays where she is until Margo’s gone boneless. Margo’s pussy smells divine and Sandy has to stop herself from licking up more of that sauce. She licks her lips instead, wipes her face on the sheets. She crawls up and flops next to Margo, tucks her hair back behind her ear.

Margo draws a fingernail from Sandy’s collarbone, between her breasts, circles her bellybutton, heads south. Sandy shivers and tries to keep her expression even. She wraps her hand around Margo’s, pulls it up and kisses her knuckles. Margo smiles, soft and knowing, twists their hands, lowers them to press Sandy’s against Margo’s pussy.

“Fuck me,” she says. “Fuck me like this night is your last.”

*

When they finally rest, the sky is dull grey with the first hints of morning. Sandy has just enough energy to pull the curtains closed before slipping between cool sheets. She reaches out for Margo, snuggles against her, one arm round her middle, the other cushioning her head. Her hair tickles her face but once Margo stops wiggling, the tickling stops. Doesn’t stop Sandy from nosing her way through all that hair to kiss Margo’s neck. She grinds against Margo’s ass halfheartedly. She wants to go again, but she knows she’s gotta sleep now, so she lets herself relax and lets the rise and fall of Margo’s chest against her hand lull her to sleep.

*

She wakes alone. It’s almost midday according to the clock in the living room. No sign of Margo anywhere. Nothing at all. No clothes, no make-up, no purse or handbag. It’s like she was never here.

Something doesn’t sit right with her. Something seems out of place… She shrugs it off, dresses in her borrowed suit from last night. How’s she going to get the clothes back to Margo? She didn’t leave a phone number, no address. She might be able to find her way back to that country mansion but she’s got no car and she’s damned if she’s hitch hiking all that way just to return a borrowed suit.

Can’t leave without making herself a coffee. Sets the water boiling on the stove, gets a mug, grabs the jar. But there’s no spoons. No cutlery. She checks the drawers. All the other usual cooking utensils but no silverware.

… No silverware.

Frantically, she checks the bedroom. Where there would be a jewelry box, there’s nothing. Countless hangers naked save for a few blouses and a fur stole.

Fuck the coffee, she’s out of here. Grabs her suit jacket, shoves her feet in her new shoes, grabs her bag. Elevator takes too long and she might be imagining it, but are those sirens she can hear? Stairs, two at a time, all the way to the basement. The Belair is still there, but the car they parked next to last night, it was a Buick, right? Black Roadmaster. Gone. Could be a coincidence. There’s plenty of other empty carparks. People off to work and all.

The sirens get louder, closer. Yep, she wasn’t imagining them. She bounds up the ramp, skidding to a halt at the top. Adjusts her suit, and throws her bag over her shoulder all casual just as the cops scream around the corner. She whistles a tune and joins the throng of pedestrians rushing around living their lives.

*

Evening. Nurses a whiskey on her last ten bucks, thinks about how crazy the last day’s been, when the bartender turns up the news on the TV. She's cute. All short hair and shirtsleeves rolled up.

“You heard about this?” the bartender says. “Crazy shit.”

The newscaster blathers about a heist. Cash and jewels, stolen cars. Photo comes up on the screen. The black and white can't erase the color from Sandy's memory. Blonde woman, red lipstick, blue eyes, red polka dot dress. “If you see this woman, do not approach her. Call the authorities immediately.”

“My kind of woman,” the bartender says.

Sandy gulps down the last of her whisky. Hand to her pocket to pull out her wallet. Only it’s not in her trousers. Or her jacket. Panic rising, she checks her bag. A purse sits at the top, her wallet next to it. The purse bulges and the zip races away as she unzips it to reveal a stack of cash. She grins. Slaps a hundred on the bar. Sandy leans in, murmurs to the bartender, “Best keep out of her way if you see her. You don’t know what kind of trouble she’s capable of.”


End file.
